Surrendering
by AirborneGirl
Summary: This is not a good idea. there's no reason for you to sit in your car, outside your partner's house, waiting for him to come back from his date. not after you were the one to end your little 'thing' once and for all. Set mid-season 5. Rating for mild swearing.


**Surrendering**

**AN**: This story just came to me. Things like that happen. And I have no choice but the write them down. So that's what I did. Hope you like it.

Oh…and thanks so very much for all the wonderful reviews on my two other NCIS: LA stories.

**Spoilers**: Set mid season 5. Kensi's back from Afghanistan.

**Disclaimer**: If they were mine, I would never have sent Kensi away. There are other ways to hide a pregnant belly. But the reality is they're not mine. I can only write about them. Which I do…so on with it we go…

Kensi

It's absurd. Absurd and surreal and painful and you know it. Yet, here you are, in your car, parked outside a home, in the dark, with coffee, water and a box of Twinkies. Camera ready on the seat next to you. Where, on a normal stake-out, your partner would be.

This is not a normal stake-out.

For one, it's not sanctioned by Hetty or anyone else for that matter. In fact, nobody knows about it, because if they did, you'd be in big trouble. Or bigger trouble, because you yourself know nothing good can come out of this. It's torture and you're inflicting it on yourself, because you think you deserve nothing less.

Nothing good can come out of stalking your partner.

You sigh, hand close to the key in the ignition, but not any closer to twisting it and starting the engine, to give up and drive away before your heart breaks again. Instead, you grab another piece of candy and unwrap it, hoping the sugar rush will qualm the queasiness in your stomach, which has nothing to do with the fact this is your sixth Twinkie since you parked here. Or seventh. Whatever.

No, this particular achy stomach has been with you for two months, three days and…a quick look at your watch…fifteen hours.

That was the moment you told your partner, Marty Deeks, that you didn't want to delve any further into this…thing you have.

You were not in your right mind after you came back from your emotionally draining mission in Afghanistan. First there were the many sleepless nights, followed by exhaustion and sleeping pills fueled nightmares, followed by more sleepless nights because you didn't dare close your eyes.

It didn't help, even wide awake, the hallucinations would come, morphing Jack into Deeks and back, losing them both in the end, more often than not by the wrong end of your sniper rifle.

All this time, Deeks was there, in whatever capacity you needed him, or better yet, whatever capacity you allowed him to. Which wasn't much. You couldn't stand the concern in his eyes, the tenderness and patience. Ho w did you deserve any of it, when there were many moments you were prone to go for the jugular and leave no evidence?

So no, even after months of therapy, many talks with Nate, you still didn't dare to pursue a real relationship with the man you love. Whom you know you love. And whom you know loves you too. But it's too much. Either you push him away or he'll leave voluntarily as soon as he comes to the inevitable conclusion he's wasting his time with you. That you're too high strung, too high maintenance and you'll never totally surrender, always keeping the best of yourself to yourself, afraid to show the real you. The one he thinks he wants to see.

You know better. Any time people show their true selves, shells fall of eyes, people run for cover and relationships get broken.

Two months, three days and fifteen hours ago, you told him no. Looked into the depth of his blue gaze and rejected him and all he had to offer, all the goodness and warmth and humor and love you know he has for you.

Held your ground as you saw the clouds forming behind those eyes, turning them into a stormy gray. Said nothing when he asked you why, voice hoarse and tears streaming, tears he didn't mind showing and never bothered to wipe away.

Walking away from him, leaving him standing in the middle of the bullpen should have felt like a triumph. It felt like a knife in the gut, or probably worse.

The sickness hasn't left you since.

Hetty refused point blank to get you a new partner. She's not crazy, she knows damn well what's going on between the two of you and either thinks you'll work it out or she's punishing you. Like you need help in that department.

Every day is a struggle. There's nothing left of your easy partnership. There's no flirting (obviously), no banter, no fresh coffee or donuts, no secret stash of candy in his drawer. No more showing up on your doorstep with take-out and Monty in tow. You miss the hairy mutt. And his dog too.

Miss the easy way you had with each other. Finishing each other's sentences, the way he allowed you to curl up against his solid body after a hard day, though never without some sexual innuendo, which you tried to ignore, but which always made you blush.

You always hated the same girl on Top Model, but always disagreed about who was best. You could recite Titanic front to back and at the end of it, you weren't sure if you were crying because of the sadness of Jack Dawson dying or because Deeks was draped over your couch gaping like a fish in a pathetic reenactment attempt.

He's such a goof. Or at least, he was.

He's still reliable. He still has your back. Still looks at you with his fierce blue eyes, not bothering to try and hide either his love or his hurt from you.

Nor does he hide anything of his feelings from Callen and Sam, or Eric and Nell. Or even Hetty. And where you once thought that at least your surrogate big brothers were on your side, it now seems 'team Deeks' is one solid brotherhood.

Oh yes, you're the black sheep now. And you know it too.

It just couldn't get any worse.

Until it did.

Her name's Sophie. You would like to point out that it's a childish name, but that would be a little childish, now wouldn't it? Childish or not, she's the new girl in Deeks' life and he hasn't stopped talking about her since he met her, a little over two weeks ago.

You haven't seen her yet, but according to your partner, she's all he could ever wish for. She's (apparently) smart enough to hold her own in a conversation (though how smart does one have to be to keep up with Deeks? Patience would be a better virtue for that), yet ditzy enough to go along with the many lies he has to tell about his occupation. So she sounds just like any other girl he's ever gone out with.

Problem is though, that Deeks seems to be really taken with Sophie. His eyes light up when he talks about her and for the first time in months he looks happy.

It should take the pressure off of you, ease a bit of the guilt you feel at the pain you caused him. The pain in your tummy should subside a little now that, out of sheer happiness, he sometimes forgets he should be heartbroken and even gets you your favorite donuts again.

The knife twists painfully, now dipped in the venom called jealousy.

God, could you have been any more stupid? Or naïve? Did you really think he would mourn your loss forever, that he would never move on? And what exactly gives you the right to feel insulted and hurt by it? You rejected him, miss Blye. He has every right to find himself someone else to love. A girl like Sophie, who might be a ditz, but who's at least smart enough to know a good man when she sees one and hold onto him too. Which makes her Einstein in comparison to you.

But she hasn't faced the trauma you have, your internal defense attorney points out. He must be pro bono, because he's not doing a very effective job. His was fighting a losing battle to begin with. The prosecution has a much more solid case and presents it well.

How do you know she's never suffered any trauma? Afghanistan set aside (you're in a league of your own there), who are you to assume this girl has never been left by a lover? Or been mistreated by anyone in her life? Lost a parent or a brother or a friend? It's kind of inevitable in human life, though more so in your line of work.

The line of work you chose for yourself. You can always quit and start collecting stamps instead. Because philatelists never encounter anything more dramatic than a paper cut from a ten thousand dollar square of paper, right?

What job is fool proof these days? And what does it have to do with life experience?

You don't even know what she does for a living, so perhaps it's something that takes a lot of empathy, like a nurse. And face it, even if she was doing nothing more nerve wracking than stocking shelves at a local seven-eleven, that still doesn't mean she's void of any emotional development.

Maybe there's more to Sophie than you know. And maybe that means that your one argument for rejecting Deeks is null and void and plain stupid.

All these random and disturbing thoughts have culminated into your being here now, on a Saturday night, waiting outside his house for him to come back from a date with his new girlfriend, hoping you'll catch a glimpse of her.

You're not sure what you want to see, really. If he comes home alone, does that mean the date hasn't gone well? Do you want that for him? And if she's indeed with him, do you really want to witness their kisses, their loving touches, another girl taking the place you have voluntarily given up?

And what if he doesn't come home at all? A real chance…

Perhaps you should go. This is ridiculous. Pathetic. Unprofessional.

You grab your seventh Twinkie. The knife twists painfully. You ignore it and focus your gaze on his front door.

An hour later, Marty Deeks comes hone. Alone. You never see him, having succumbed to sleep ten minutes before.

He however, does see you.

His face sets in a thin, angry line.

Deeks

You're tired. Dead tired. A stifling feeling which has settled itself in your very bone marrow. Ever since you got your heart trampled on by the woman you can't help loving, the whole point of moving, breathing, existing is lost on you.

It's not for lack of trying. You are doing your best. You take care of yourself, go surfing whenever the waves are promising, walk and run and play with your good old pal Monty (ignoring the small whines coming from the doggie bed every time the doorbell rings and it's not her) and yes, you flirt with the plethora of hot girls gracing the beach with their presence.

Your heart's not in it, really, but it's a distraction, one you desperately need to prevent yourself from going crazy.

Perhaps you should have asked Hetty to send you back to LAPD, but there's this stubborn streak inside of you that refuses to believe it's all over. It can't be. She'll come 'round. One of these days.

But stubbornness does not protect you from the increasing feeling of loneliness. Much as you adore Monty's loyal brown eyes, they're not enough to make you forget another pair of mismatched, brown orbs, or the warmth they once held for you.

So in order to rouse yourself out of your stupor, you go out and, two weeks ago, you met someone.

Sophie.

A geriatric physical therapist at a local nursing home, she understands more of the human spirit and its capabilities than any other woman you've dated so far and it's a joy to talk to her about how to deal with wavering minds and unwilling bodies. You've told her you're an independent agent working with LAPD. It's close enough to the truth for you not to get tangled in another alias and vague enough not to have to elaborate. Just like her patients' files, much of what you do is labeled 'classified' and she never asks difficult questions.

She's sweet too. Caring and nice. Good sense of humor. Killer body. Bright green eyes. Strawberry blond hair. Smallish, but not too tiny (not that there's anything wrong with tiny women; just in case Hetty can read minds, which you're pretty sure she can), just…a good girl.

A first date turns into a second and now, into a third. You had fun. She's an amazing kisser and appreciates that you don't want to sleep with her immediately. Respects you for it, even, and it's easier to let her think you're being chivalrous.

Instead of afraid of what will happen should this relationship go any further. Afraid of what it will do to whatever is left of you and Kensi.

You don't want to lead Sophie on, knowing full well that all Kensi has to do is wink and you'll drop all pretence in your haste to be by her side. The chances are small, but still…Sophie is too nice to toy with. You sincerely hope you can make yourself fall in love with her.

You know it's not something you can force.

So yeah, you're taking things easy. One step, one kiss at a time. Letting her perfume waft around you and pretending that flowers and cinnamon are somehow better than sunshine and gunpowder.

Tonight went well. Nice dinner, some dancing, she laughed at your jokes without the urge to punch you. A stroll down the beach, hand in hand. You make a cute couple, but still…you're not partners and you can't read her every wish from her lips, not do you feel the need to fulfill them.

It's…nice. But it's not…

It's just not.

And you know the time is coming when you have to come clean with that fact, though you have no idea how to go about it. It's not like you set out to hurt her, but somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew you would.

You also know that she gave you none too subtle hints all night about how she wanted to spend it and you were a fraction away from giving in. you're a healthy mature man after all and abstinence was never your style. In the end, you couldn't cheat on her (you're not quite sure who the 'her' in this tale is), so you backed off after a few heated kisses, coming up with an excuse of having to do some work in the morning.

You hate to lie to her. Hate it more that she believed you.

The drive home is silent, you're not in the mood for any music and the news annoys you. The streetlights beckon you home and you've never been more glad to reach it, as fatigue settles into your bones once more.

A fraction of a second later, it has vanaished though.

No…no way. She can't…this isn't.

Oh yeah. She can. This is.

This is Kensi's car, parked across from your house. This is her shape in the driver's seat. This is your partner and once best friend, stalking you.

The bow breaks. Whereas two weeks ago, you would have been more than happy to see her, now all you feel is anger, doused in bitterness and topped off with a sprinkling of annoyance.

Too little, too late.

Perhaps you should rouse her out of her sleep. She's obviously out of it, because if she were awake and alert, she would have come out of the car by now. But instead, you let her. Maybe, when she wakes up in a few hours with a crook in her neck and not having seen anything useful, she might finally get the idea and leave.

And if not, maybe your anger will have subsided enough when you yourself wake up. Because, really, not even pissed off Kensi Blye would be a match for you now.

Kensi

The first persistent rays of early sunlight peek through your window and straight in your face and if that's not irritating enough, it's accompanied by a steady pounding, like someone knocking on the window.

You blearily open your eyes, shielding them with your hand as you turn into the direction of the sound. There really is someone knocking.

And not just anyone.

He's holding a to go cup with what you presume is coffee and a bag which may or may not contain a fresh donut. Just like the old days.

Yet, unlike the old days, one thing is missing.

He's not smiling. In fact, you've never seen him this way. And you thought you know every display of emotion possible on Marty Deeks.

You know his happy look, his concentrated on the task look, his cocky confident look, his scared as hell look, his concern for your wellbeing look. His angry look. His sad and forlorn look.

You can most vividly remember that one, together with his pleading, his despair and his never wavering look of pure love.

Though never wavering…it's wavering now. Scratch that, it's not.

It's gone. And new is the look he's giving you now.

The look of cold rejection.

The knife twists again.

Not daring to let him in, you start the car to roll down the electric window on his side. He hands you his treats, but with the look he gives you, you don't dare eat or drink any of it. It might be poisoned. At the very least it's bitter.

"Fancy seeing you here," he starts, sarcasm lacing his words.

"Yeah, I…I was…"

"On a stake-out? Am I suspected of anything?"

"What…"

He cuts you off with more sarcasm and it's no longer the food you're worried about being venomous.

"Because that's the only legitimate reason I can think of as to why an NCIS Special Agent would be observing my home, without her partner, who, wait…is me."

God, he's angry. And rightfully so. What were you thinking, coming over here? Why can't you just leave well enough alone and accept his right to move on? And do so without telling you?

Still, you have to save face, you have to…

"I…I was…" You try to start again, but he cuts you off. Which might be for the better. You're making enough of a fool of yourself not to need the addition of telling an obvious, whopping lie. And telling it badly too.

"Please, don't humiliate yourself by trying to come up with some half-assed excuse as to why you are here. Or why you've been here all night."

You don't. You've stopped trying. Doesn't mean you're ready to hear the inevitable consequences of your stupid actions.

"Maybe you'd like to know you didn't miss anything by falling asleep. I came home alone. You see, Sophie's not some floozy I amuse myself with until someone better comes along. In fact, come to think of it, she might be the better one coming along after the amusement with my partner wore off.

Ouch.

For a moment, you forget to breathe. Maybe you should have seen this retaliation coming, but you were completely caught off guard and his offhanded remark leaves you gasping for air and brings unwanted and unsuspected tears in your eyes.

Normal, sweet Deeks would now smile at you, to soften the blow of his words and you would punch him and things would go back to the way things were. But there is no normal, sweet Deeks anymore. You killed him, two months, four days ago…

Silence settles for a while, before he leans back from your car.

"Go home, Kensi Blye. Tomorrow, I'll go to Hetty and tell her I want to go back to LAPD permanently. I can't do this anymore. I'm…I'm tired."

"No…no, Marty. Please, no…"

"There's no other way, Kensi. Go home. Just…go home."

He turns his back on you and crosses the street. A minute later, you see him open the door, pushing Monty back inside as the dog tries to see what's going on.

"Get back inside," you hear him say. "There's nobody out there."

Ouch.

That's quite enough. You rev the engine and drive away, only stopping halfway to kneel in some bushes and vomit.

You must have eaten too many Twinkies…

Other than leaving your previous stomach contents on the side of the road, you make it back in one piece. As you make your way to the bathroom, you leave a trail of clothes behind, but since your humble home is already nothing more than a pig sty (according to your almost ex-partner; ouch), you don't care. Much. Or at all.

You stay in the shower for almost an hour, until the water turns tepid and your limbs are numb. You fell marginally better.

There are almost no clean clothes left in your closet, but again, you're not bothered. Digging up your favorite pair of yoga pants from underneath a pile in the corner of your bedroom (one sniff telling you they're not overly ripe), you yank them on, together with a faded blue LAPD shirt.

His, of course.

And the marginally better feeling is gone again, to be replaced by another crying fit, sponsored by any tissue company imaginable. Heck, you might as well buy stocks, they're bound to make a huge profit in the greater Los Angeles area.

As are the liquor stores. And any bakery within a thirty mile radius. Better make that forty.

Should you call him? Your hand hovers over the screen of your phone, where you've only recently replaced his picture (well, him and Monty) with a generic flowery display. The phone drops uselessly from your limp hand; you can't find the courage, nor the words.

Maybe a text? But what to put in it?

"Please, Marty…"

You type it, but don't dare send it. He looked so determined.

As usual, the uselessness, the helplessness makes you antsy. And being antsy makes you angry. And because you're not ready to direct the anger at the source (you), you direct it at him.

Stupid Deeks! How dare he give up like this! Why can't he see you were trying to…whatever it was you were trying to do. Why can't he be patient until you resolve…whatever it is you need to resolve. Basically, why can't he help you understand whatever it is you don't understand yourself.

In the end, he's just like Jack.

He's…wait…you're…

Aha!

Wait…where's the aha coming from?

The prosecutor inside waves at you. Remember me? The one who knows it's all your own fault? Because, miss Blye, let's get a few things straight about your current situation in comparison to your little Jack episode.

Fact one: both Jack and Deeks suffered from PTSD. But whereas Jack drowned, Deeks resurfaced.

Fact two: both Jack and you suffered from PTSD. And both of you drowned.

Fact three: both Jack and Deeks loved you, but only Jack ran away. Deeks stayed, ready to fight for you and what you had.

Fact four: both Jack and you loved someone dearly, and both of you…

Oh God…

Get it now? Prosecution rests.

Oh God…

You were doing all the running, all the denying. You were the one too afraid to trust. You were doing to Marty what Jack has done to you. And you didn't even see it.

Oh God…what if you're too late? What if tomorrow he won't listen to you and sign the papers anyway? What if he goes in early and signs them before you even get there?

There's nothing to it. You're going to have to be there first. Get to Hetty before he does. Ask her, beg her, bribe her if you have to not to allow him anywhere near any paperwork until you have one more chance to talk to him.

Determination setting in, you walk to your bedroom and fall in a heap upon your bed. You might as well get some sleep now. Your alarm clock will go off way early in the morning.

It's not even six in the morning when you find yourself in the dimly lit bullpen in the Mission. While the lights on your desks are still all off (thank God he's not here yet), one small light is burning on Hetty's desk, giving more credibility to Deeks' assumption she's part bat, or owl. A nocturnal creature anyway.

Trembling with a funny combination of nerves and determination, you make your way over until you're standing right in front of the formidable leader that is Henrietta Lange.

"You are early, miss Blye."

"Yeah, I needed to…"

"Be here before mister Deeks shows up?"

Why are you surprised, really?

"Yes. He's going to ask you to…"

"Transfer him back to LAPD?"

Why is she uttering every sentence as a question when she damn well knows she's got it right?

"Yes. And you…"

"Need to stop him from doing so?"

Defeated, you nod.

"Pray tell, miss Blye, why do I need to stop him?"

Oh, like the Almighty miss know-it-all doesn't know that. She just wants to see you squirm. Apparently, Hetty is also in 'camp Deeks'. Should have guessed.

"Because…" Oh well, here goes nothing.

"Because I need him. I…I need my partner. In every way imaginable."

"Please forgive me for not wanting to imagine every way, miss Blye. But may I ask you what has brought this change in you about?"

Gee, where to start.

"Because…it turns out I am like Jack, not Marty. Not that I'm like Marty, but Marty's not like jack, I mean."

To anyone but you, it sounds like gibberish, yet Hetty nods. Okay, so Hetty speaks fluent gibberish. Again, should have guessed. After all, she understands Deeks' pig Latin without fail too.

"Very well, miss Blye. I'll see what I can do. But, if he still wants to leave by the end of the day, I won't be stopping him. I won't force him into a partnership that no longer benefits anyone."

"Thanks Hetty."

"Don't thank me yet, miss Blye. I can't perform miracles."

You smile, knowing what she means. The miracle should not be coming from her. It should be all you. But you're ready to fight for it.

Deeks:

After only a few hours of restless sleep, you dragged yourself out of bed, took a quick shower, drank a cup of coffee and made your way to the Mission, not looking forward to what you needed to do, but not wanting to stall it either.

This time, you don't have any eyes for what's going on in the fairly empty parking lot, your thoughts all wrapped around the task you've set out for yourself.

The bullpen is blissfully empty when you come in and after dropping your bag on your desk, you quickly make your way to Hetty's desk, ignoring the sinking pit in your stomach and Kensi's voice in your mind as she begs you not to do this.

It has to be done. It's better for all concerned.

"Hetty, I…" you start. Then clamp your mouth shut.

Looks like she was expecting both you and the reason of your visit. The paperwork's already in front of her and you have to admit, it kind of hurts. As if she can't wait to get rid of you, even when it's on your own request. Frankly, you expected her to put up at least some semblance of a fight. Do you really mean that little to her?

And what about Callen and Sam? They'll miss you, right? They might not want to say it out loud, but they will, right? You were one of them? Or are they going to be mad at you for bailing on Kensi? Can you, no, should you explain to them that she left you no other option?

God, you're so tired.

"Mister Deeks, I know what you want and I won't stop you if you are one hundred percent sure. But I do want one thing in return."

"What's that?"

"Go talk to her. Right now. One more time."

Right now? She's here then? At this ungodly hour? Just to stop you? Or…

Does it still matter?

"What's the point, Hetty?"

"There's always a point, mister Deeks. I for one thinks she's ready."

"For what? Talking? Explaining? Listening?"

"Surrendering, mister Deeks. Surrendering"

Okay, you didn't see that one coming. Hope flares, obvious enough for the dwarflike enormity that is Hetty to pick up on.

"I believe she's at the gym, mister Deeks."

You nod and turn around, smiling your first smile in over two months when your boss wishes you 'Godspeed'.

Kensi

For the first time in your life, you fought the punching bag and the damn thing won, taking advantage of your lack of concentration.

This is it. Any moment now, you could lose your partner forever. Any moment now, your self-fulfilling prophesy will be fulfilled.

The thought that at least you tried is not consoling whatsoever as it is overruled by the too-little-too-late mantra gaining momentum in your tired brain.

The minutes crawl by as you toy with the strings on your yoga pants (yes, still the same yoga pants; at least he won't have a problem sniffing you out). Part of you wants to stand and check the batteries of the clock on the wall, the other part wants to take them out altogether. You want it to be over with.

You want to stall the moment forever.

You want to go back in time and lose your car keys before you can come up with the dangerous idea of driving up to his place.

Is he in yet? Is he with Hetty? Can she convince him to rethink his actions?

Will he come down to say goodbye?

A sob escapes your throat. Thanks to the fatigue you feel, you have no defences left to keep it in and it's quickly followed by many other quiet sobs, until your entire body is shaking with it.

The door of the gym opens, but the unfamiliar agent takes one look at you and turns back. Good.

Minutes tick by. The sobs lessen, the pain in your gut increases.

Where is he? What's keeping him?

The door opens again and your heart stops when you recognize the silhouette of your partner. Or ex-partner? Oh God please.

"Kensi…"

"Is it..did you…?"

"No, not yet."

Oh sweet relief. You almost want to laugh with it.

"Don't thank me, though. Thank Hetty. She seems to think there's still some point in rehashing this…thing…again."

"You don't think so?"

The all too familiar motion of his hand ruffling his hair, his telltale sign of frustration, is an answer in itself.

"Honestly, Kensi? No, I don't think so. I'm so sick and tired of this…whatever it is. It feels like riding a carousel when you're young. Spurring on your horse, imagining the endless destinations it can take you to. But then you grow up and realize you're going round in circles and there is no point, literally. You're stuck, not going anywhere."

You nod, more to indicate you're listening than to show him you understand.

"Before you went to Afghanistan, and even later, when you were safely back, I had hoped this merry-go-round thing would come to a halt. And that when I got off, still dizzy from so many rounds, I would stumble upon you and that finally, we would take off in the same direction. But then…"

Yeah, you know what then.

He comes closer, puts his hands on your shoulder.

"Look at me, please."

You do.

"I'm getting off, Kensi. I can't stomach another round. So I'm hitting the breaks and getting off. I still hope you'll be there, but even if you are, I'm moving away from this. I owe it to myself."

He does. He's a good man. He deserves to unglue himself and take his wings. You've had no idea how much you were cramping by not acknowledging your responsibility toward him.

"So…now what?"

He sighs.

"Now you give me a reason to stay. And if not, I'll go back to Hetty and sign the paperwork. And I'm fully aware of the pressure I'm putting on you, but Kensi…"

"I know. And it's not the only thing I now know."

"What's more?"

"Do you have a minute?"

He smiles. "I'll indulge. One minute."

"I thought you were like Jack. One foot out the door. Looking for an opportunity to run and never look back. And then you almost did, or still can, actually. But I can't blame you. Because you're not the one who's given up the fight first. That was all me. And I still don't know why. Because you love me so much…"

"Always have, always will."

"And I love you too…"

"I know, Kensalina."

One of your many nicknames. Encouragement. Hope is looming.

"And I want to try, really I do, but I…what if…"

"What if what, Fernie?"

"What if I'm the one to run away?"

"I can always cuff you to the bed. I still have the furry pink handcuffs, you know."

Nicknames. Bantering, flirting. What was so scary about this again? You snort.

"Don't even think about it."

"Kinda hard not to."

He grins wickedly, but then turns serious again.

"Kensi, listen. I know you're scared. You've been through a lot and it'll take a while for you to rebound from that. But I'm here. I'm strong enough for the both of us and I won't let you run. Trust me, Kensi. I'm your partner, I got your back."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

"You won't go?"

"Not without you."

He bends over and places a thorough, slow, sweet kiss on your lips. You sigh in contentment and immediately he delves into your open mouth. After many blissfull seconds, or minutes, or whatever, you come up for air.

"I love you, Marty Deeks."

"I love you, Kensi Marie Blye."

He kisses you again, hungrily, greedily, but you break it off.

"We're at work, Marty."

"So? Nobody can see us. This is a blind spot to the camera."

He kisses you again and you indulge.

Until a buzzing sound comes from his back pocket. He fishes out his cell phone and opens a message from Hetty.

_It is not, mister Deeks_

Marty drops the phone in a panic.

Behind her desk, a smirking Henrietta Lange puts the LAPD transfer papers in the shredder…

THE END

_Like, love, hate? You know how to let me know._

_Thanks for reading. _


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